mayday
by scribblingnellie
Summary: A consulting criminal gets more than he bargained for, Molly Hooper is determined to stay focused and Greg Lestrade has no intention of losing the woman he loves. Implied violence, blood and a few f-words. Many thanks for reading! The first in a series of stories based on creative daily prompts for May.


**This story is something completely different for me. I decided to write some quick stories based on a set of creative prompts for May. The first was 'may day'. Now at first I pictured spring time and flowers and sunshine, something else in my mind started forming this story. I don't know where it came from, though I have wanted to try something like it for a while. This was written in my lunch hour today, with a little bit of editing, so it's still a bit raw.**

**To let you know, there's implied violence and a bit of blood (and a few f-words) as Molly tries to keep herself focused, her mind coming and going, her thoughts a little jumbled.**

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_mayday (noun) international radio distress signal used by ships and aircraft ...may derive from the French 'm'aidez', meaning 'help me'  
_

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'Molly, are you there? Please pick up the phone if you are. Your mobile's off, I can't reach you... Molly...?'

The thin white cotton curtain billowed as the spring breeze found its way into her front room. A half drunk mug of tea on the coffee table where she'd left it.

'...Molly, I'm sorry. We need to talk. If you're home, please pick up.'

Half open, the front door bumped against the little vintage table fallen on its side. Creaking on its hinge, reminding her of another job that she kept meaning to do, oil that hinge.

'...are you there? I've tried Barts, Mike said you had the afternoon off. And I called John and Mary and Sherlock. Molly?'

The umbrella dug into her palm; the first thing that'd come to hand in the hallway. The polite knock had seemed quite ordinary. She wasn't expecting anyone.

The answer phone. Where was it? Her leg wouldn't move, the red stain spread out from it. How much had she lost? Where did the stain from her end and from him begin? His head, slumped against the wall, his eyes closed. Blood from his arm. He breathed, low, wheezing but he breathed. She couldn't look away.

'Ok, listen, I'll say it now 'cause I feel so crap about it. I'm really sorry about last night. I shouldn't've let her...'

Last night, the restaurant, his hand in hers, his gorgeous brown eyes. His ex-wife. How did he get a younger woman to go out with him, pay her?

Behind her. The phone had fallen behind her as she'd back away from him, stumbling. Rolling, slowly, squeezing her eyes against the burning in her leg, she saw it.

'... I shouldn't have let her go on like that...'

Apologising. He didn't need to apologise. The receiver felt cool. It shook in her hand.

'Greg?'

'Molly? You ok? Figured you were out or ignoring me, I...'

'Greg...' Deep breath against the pain. '... I need help.' Her voice stalled.

'Molly? Shit, what's wrong? What's happened?'

Was he in his car? It sounded like he was driving. Did he have it in the holder? He wasn't holding his phone, was he? She worried.

'...he broke in... forced the door. I knocked him out.'

'What?! Molly, bloody hell. Who? Are you ok?'

'Jim... Jim.'

He was breathing but still out cold.

'Christ. I'm in the car, on my way. I'll call it in. Are you hurt?'

Fuzziness wanted to take over her mind. Still losing blood, but nothing to staunch the bleeding that she could grab. She couldn't move. Didn't want to bleed to death. Or for Jim to come round. Maybe he'd lost too much blood.

'Molly?! Are you hurt?'

The cut in her trousers - skin, muscle, blood.

'Yes. I .. fell, on some glass... I think. I...' Her voice didn't want to work. But she needed it to. Concentrate.

'Fuck. Ok, Molly, hold on, love. Are your neighbours in? Call out for help.'

No one had come. Crashing door, breaking glass, her scream, his shouting but no one had come.

'No. No one's here.'

'Molly, listen to me, love. There's a beat officer on the way. Please hang on. I'm not going to lose you... listen to... focus...'

Fading in and out. No. She forced her eyes open. Concentrate, stay awake. Gripping the phone, she stared at the wall, anywhere but at him. Keep awake. Heavy steps sounded on the stairs.

'Miss Hooper? Miss Hooper!'

'Is that them? Molly love, is that them?'

The door hit back against the fallen table. Big boots came into her view, clomping over her carpet.

'Yes. It's them..'

'Thank fuck for that. I'm nearly there... Molly, hang in there. I love you.'

He loved her? Maybe he does. He did kiss her, softly, sweetly. And ran his fingers through her hair, rather lovely.

'Miss? Can you hear me? Come on, look at me Miss Hooper.' Hands on her head, blue eyes staring at her. 'Ok, you've lost a lot of blood. Stay with me. Ambulance is on its way.'

Pressure made her wince. Shaking her head, she pointed across the hallway.

'Towels. In there... I couldn't get to them.'

'Of course.'

Hands left her head, boots stepped slowly over here. More footsteps? There was, out on the staircase.

'Molly?!'

She'd never noticed his shoes before. He wore nice shoes, not big clumping boots. He must have once, before he was a detective.

'Oh god, Molly.'

'Greg...' In her head her voice sounded far away, quiet.

'I'm here, love. I'm here.' His hands, rough, gentle on her face. Coffee, cigarettes, his aftershave. 'Oh, shit, Molly.'

The umbrella fell from her hand. She was gripping his shirt, pulling him towards her, his chest against her face.

'Greg... I love you.'

'I'm here, Molly, stay with us.' His breathing against her forehead.

'Please don't go anywhere.' His shirt against her lips.

'I'm not going anywhere, love.' His heartbeat against her face.

This was safe.

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**Many thanks for reading.**


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